


ain't it good to be alive

by insunshine



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Los Angeles Kings, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 15:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10619727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: Jon loves being stoned.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gigantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigantic/gifts).



> At some point over the last few days, my best pal @gigantic suggested that perhaps Quickie and Jarome Iginla should bang, and I thought - "Hmm, yes, I concur!" This idea has been rattling around my head since.
> 
> Thousands of thanks to @asmallbluedot without whom I would be entirely lost. She not only listened to me whine about this all afternoon, but also managed to edit it into something semi-respectable in lickety-split time. What a gem. 
> 
> The title was shamelessly stolen from Chris Bathgate's "Calvary", because I'm forever in love with him and his beautiful, ethereal voice.

Jon loves being stoned. It makes his body feel loose but heavy at the same time, permanent in a way that nothing else really seems to. It's nice, being able to float away from himself while still being tied down by all his limbs.

Somewhere in the house, the doorbell rings. He moves like he's going to get it before remembering that he can't. 

“Mm,” he says, rolling his hips down in an answering motion to Iggy’s upward slide. The bell rings again, or maybe they left a window open somewhere. The air con has been fucked for the last few days, and it’s so hot. 

Maybe it's a bird.

“What's that?” Iggy’s voice is a rasp in his throat. He's leaning against the headboard. Jon is on his lap. Jon can feel the words against his back, that's how tight they're smushed together.

“‘think there's a bird,” Jon says, even though that's not what he meant to say. Iggy has his hands clutched on Jon’s hips, not too tight, but present. Grounding.

“In the house?” Iggy asks. 

His voice is so soft, but maybe he's whispering. Except for the bird, they're the only two people here, he doesn't have to be so quiet, but Jon kind of likes it. Iggy’s lips nudge against his ear, the back of his neck, drop down to his shoulder, mapping out something Jon can picture, but not see. 

“You're a constellation,” Iggy says, rolling up again, fucking his hips up harder, not as languid as before.

Jon has no idea how long they've been fucking, but it feels like days. His thighs and ass are sore, but it's the good kind. He can't even really feel it, just the phantom ache, maybe.

The bell rings again, and Jon feels his eyes pop open from the sound, and the way Iggy’s dick snaps against his prostate.

“Do you think the doorbell is a bird?” he asks.

He doesn’t think it’s that absurd a question, but he's rewarded with the way Iggy loses it, chuckling hard against his back. Jon can feel it each and every time his body shakes.

“They're persistent,” Iggy says, hands on Jon’s hips again. Maybe they never left, though. That sounds like it would be pretty nice.

“Doorbells are small, man. That bird just wants to get out.” 

Iggy laughs again, and that's great. What's not great is the way he tips Jon to his side, leaning him against the wall of sweaty pillows they'd propped up and pulling out of him gently.

Jon’s legs are mostly numb, but he can feel that loss of contact instantly, and he hates it. Being empty is awful.

“Being empty is awful,” he says. He's not even sure Iggy’s heard him until he opens his eyes again and sees his face for the first time in a while. Feels like years, but maybe they haven't known each other that long.

“I'm just going to check the door,” Iggy says, and that makes as much sense as anything, Jon supposes. If anybody can free the bird, Iggy’s the guy for the job.

He closes his eyes again, but he's surprised by the sudden press of Iggy’s lips against his. It's quick, a one-two-three tap of their mouths, but they haven't kissed in so long, and Jon wants it. Jon might want Iggy’s air more than he wants his dick, and he wants Iggy’s dick a lot.

It's easy to wind his arm around Iggy’s neck, tugging him down, and close, and on top. He feels heavy, not too heavy to grab on, or maybe he's only an anchor when he's trying to pull someone else down along with him.

Iggy slides himself on top of Jon as easily as he'd fucked into him. His body is tight, compact, and Jon can't stop running his hands along his skin. There are so many dips and ridges and scars. He's more of a canyon than a man, and Jon gets to touch him. His skin is softer than it should be, his mouth is warm, and Jon wants to drink him in for hours. How long have they been doing this? He doesn't ever want to stop.

The door goes again, and Iggy pulls his mouth away. His knee is in between Jon’s legs, and he keeps up that undulating friction, like his natural instinct is to be considerate, even if his brain is occupied somewhere else.

“Where's your phone?” he asks. Jon blinks, looking around as much of the room as he can see. 

“Pants?” he asks. “Why?”

Iggy reaches for his sweats, and Jon’s rewarded with the view of his muscles rippling as he tilts sideways, fishing Jon’s phone out of his pants, and his pants out from under the bed.

“If it was important, someone would have called, right?”

“Nobody calls anymore,” Jon says, with a laugh. Iggy shrugs, and Jon loves looking at him. 

“Nobody should just stop by, either, but they have. If they're improvising, we can too.”

“Should we take a class?” Jon asks. “There are places.”

Iggy smiles at him. Jon imagines his heart, pulsing vividly, beating fast and thick. It's so loud. He wonders if Iggy can see it too.

“Nothing on your phone,” Iggy says. He's frowning now, but there's always a smile not too far behind it. “I'm going to go check, okay?” 

“Mm,” Jon says. “Don't get kidnapped.”

He must fall asleep. He's floating anyway, closer to the clouds than he is to the ground, and it feels good until he starts to tip. He startles, but Iggy’s hands are on his face again, chilly, even though it has to be a hundred degrees outside.

“Did you climb a mountain to get me a beer?” Jon asks. 

He opens his eyes as wide as he can. Iggy is so pretty, Jon doesn't want to miss a bit of it.

Iggy drops his head, and his lips are cool, too. Jon can feel them against his throat. He sucks, but it's light, the world’s gentlest hickey. Jon isn’t hard anymore, and it usually takes him a while to get back there when he's this stoned. Iggy gets him there. It happens with teeth scraping against his pulse point, Iggy’s mouth on his throat.

“Did you free the bird?” Jon asks. He lets his head drop back so that Iggy can mark him up. Each nip of his teeth makes Jon’s dick throb.

“No bird,” Iggy says. He has his hands anchored on Jon’s hips again, fingers spread. His thumbs press tight against Jon’s belly, and the skin on skin slide is enough to make him dizzy. “Pears wanted to grill. Swim in the pool. I told him to fuck off.”

Jon smiles without meaning to, but he can feel how hard his cheeks are straining. It feels good to smile at Iggy like this.

“Bet you didn't,” he says, because Iggy’s not like that. Iggy’s as big a mama bear as Brownie is.

“He's not here. You see him anywhere?” Iggy says, dropping his face against Jon’s neck and breathing in. “Just you and me, J.”

Jon can't stop smiling.


End file.
